Night
by Alory Shannon
Summary: [DHr. Oneshot, slightly AU.] It was always somehow worse at night...


_A/N: A 7th year AU drabble, assuming Draco and Hermione were Head Boy and Head Girl respectively._

* * *

Night. 

It was always somehow worse at night.

Perhaps it was how empty the darkness around him seemed, reminding him of the similar emptiness that permeated his being. Greedily he drank in the comforting blackness, yet always he thirsted for more; he was never quite satisfied, never completely satiated.

The darkness.

Sometimes it clung to him like a wet blanket, stifling and uncomfortable, and at other times he lived it, breathed it, with a peaceful, flawless unity.

His destiny lay in it.

Not for the first time he smiled slightly at how ironic it was that one so steeped in darkness should have his appearance.

Flawless ivory skin. White-blonde hair. Pale eyes, like iron or ice.

And a heart to match.

_Loneliness_ seemed too cheap a word to use for this feeling that came upon him at times like this—too common, too bland, not right for one of his stature. That aside, it was also lacking somehow, failing to correctly express the ineffable emotion that twisted inside him from time to time.

_Lust,_ perhaps, might have been nearer the mark.

That at least he could understand, partially at any rate, for he knew that it was more psychological than physical in this case: he wanted her, yes . . . but only because he knew he could never have her. It was a childish desire, really, left over from his days as the spoiled heir of a rich, high-class family, and that knowledge was quite comforting, though it did nothing to actually resolve the matter.

Hermione Granger. Her name fit her well, he mused as he stared meditatively up at the ceiling.

Hermione. The name of Helen's daughter in Greek mythology, child of the most beautiful woman in the world. A striking name. Graceful, smooth on the tongue. A pleasure to utter.

Granger. A plain, ugly name. Quite suitable for one of her blood.

Thank God it was her first name, not her last, that was lovely; there was no fear that he would ever have to speak it to her, not by itself in any case. Always her last name would come after, a reminder of her lowly status in case he should ever happen to forget himself.

Not that that was likely.

Especially when one took into account the kind of company she kept.

The Weasley boy, while deplorably poor, was at least something of a pureblood, though Muggle-lovers were really little better than Mudbloods, or the Muggles themselves. And from the way things had been going of late, Draco wouldn't have been surprised if Weasley loved more than just Muggles . . .

The other Gryffindors were generally all equally loathsome, though a smirk tweaked the corners of his mouth just slightly at the thought of the truly pathetic Longbottom.

And then there was Potter.

The very thought of his rival made him sneer. As if Weasley and the others weren't bad enough; but no, for her _best_ friend, she had to go and pick the one person Draco hated even more than Hermione herself.

And they had become so _close_ during these past few years. It was rather obvious to everyone around them what the natural progression of things would be--obvious to everyone except the "Perfect Three," who seemed as of yet blissfully unaware of how things were shaping up.

That brought the smirk back to his face. She could only pick one of them, after all; the other would wind up hurt and alone, and Draco Malfoy made a promise to himself to be there when it happened, and to relish it. Things weren't looking so good for Weasley, he had to admit. Simply put, he fought with her too much for them to be an efficient couple.

Potter on the other hand . . . there was a sensible match. And Potter seemed rather interested in the Mudblood as well.

Just yesterday Draco had seen them studying together in the library, and as he'd watched, Potter had brushed a strand of hair out of the girl's face, pulling it back and pinning it in place with a delicate golden barrette. Her eyes had gone wide, and her hand flew to the bauble; then her eyes met Potter's, and they'd both smiled at each other in a truly revolting fashion.

Just thinking about it made Draco's stomach turn.

_Leave it to a Gryffindor to try to live a fairytale life. Good always winning out over evil, everything ending just so._

He bit back a snarl. That was another thing. She was so . . . _perfect._

It was downright infuriating.

The best marks in their year, family and friends who cared about her, and an almost spotless reputation. And now even her appearance was becoming . . . well, not exactly perfect, perhaps, but certainly nothing to scoff at.

The only thing that wasn't perfect was her breeding, which was unforgivable in the mind of a pureblood like himself. To think that someone, some_thing, _like that could be _better _than him . . .

He could change that, he knew. He could make her impure, _wanted_ to make her impure.

To taint her.

And so doing, to destroy her.

But that was something he could never do. Not and get away with it.

With a sigh that was really closer to a growl he rolled over, casting himself face-down into his pillow. This was impossible. He couldn't sleep with things like this going through his mind. Not knowing that _she_ was just a few short strides down and across the hallway.

He'd toyed with all sorts of ideas already--Memory Charms, Forgetfulness Potions, and the like--but he couldn't be sure that any of them would work exactly the way he wanted them to, and if he were caught . . .

_No._ He shut his eyes tightly. The risks were simply too great, and the reward—was it really a reward at all?—wasn't worth it. _After all, if any of those things worked, then only _I _would know . . . and that isn't what I want. Everyone has to know. Everyone has to see her for what she is: a filthy, worthless _thing,_ a disgrace to this school's good name._

With a quiet snarl he pushed himself up out of his pillows and swung his legs around so that he was sitting upright, and then just sat for a moment with his feet on the ground over the side of the bed. _I'll never get to sleep at this rate,_ he groaned inwardly, raking his fingers back through silver-blonde hair. _Might as well read a bit then, if I'm going to be up anyway._

Recalling that he'd left the book he was currently reading back in the common room, he stood and stretched mightily, lean muscles straining beneath alabaster skin as the loose legs of his black silk pants straightened themselves to fall neatly about his ankles. He didn't bother with finding his slippers in the near-perfect dark, though he did pause long enough to wrap a smoke-coloured dressing gown around his slim body before stepping out into the hallway.

The floor was of smooth paneled wood, and was for the most part bare, though a few oriental-looking rugs featuring snarling lions and dragon-like serpents were scattered along it at intervals. The walls were papered in an (in Draco's opinion) unholy union of red and green, and silver and gold, making it look vaguely like Christmas all year long, though at least whoever it was who had done the decorations had been considerate enough to use muted colours; Draco gave an inward shudder at the thought of the alternative.

Pictures hung here and there, their spacing irregular, and their subject matter dealing mainly with the House animals of Gryffindor and Slytherin, though there were several photographs mixed in with the lot. He paused for a moment next to one particular print--a Muggle print, he'd been disgusted to realize when he'd first seen it--and stared at it for a long while.

Her smile was so . . . bright.

What right had she to smile like that?

_What right had she . . . ?_

Giving the still picture one last dark glance, he continued on his way down the hall and into the common room.

Granger's huge orange cat was curled up in a chair beside the fire—Draco's chair coincidentally. He was sure the mangy beast had picked that spot on purpose, just to spite him. There was little love lost between the two, and already they'd had a few minor confrontations, though Draco took care not to take his revenge in any overly noticeable fashion--after all, there was no sense in incurring the wrath of a witch as clever and canny as the current Head Girl.

Impulsively Draco decided to make the cat move, mostly out of an acknowledged desire to be cruel and his sheer hatred for the animal. And the thought of that shaggy fur on his robes . . .

As he came to a stop beside the chair, the enormous ginger tom looked up at him, an unspeakably droll expression on its oddly squashed face. He scowled down at it.

"Shove off, you hairy pig."

Pulling back its lips and barring its teeth in a classic expression of feline defiance, it spat at him then darted off towards Hermione's room, though not without first taking a swipe at his bare foot. Skillfully sidestepping the attempt, Draco snorted, unaffected. "The feeling is mutual, you walking flea trap."

After taking great care to remove all of the offending cat hair, Draco dropped into the lush armchair, closing his eyes in bliss as he sank deep into the soft cushions.

Heaven.

As close to it as he'd ever be, in any case.

Most of the other furniture in the room exhibited the usual mingling of the Gryffindor and Slytherin House colours; not so this chair. It was dark green, a deep jade, the colour of winter pines, emeralds, and serpents. On the other side of the room was a chair of rich crimson for Hermione--whoever had arranged the decoration of this room had apparently thought it important not to emphasize one House's domination over another's--but rarely did he see her in it.

Perhaps she only used it when he wasn't in the room. That made sense, he supposed, not that he really cared. In fact, he didn't really _care_ about her at all . . .

The gilded grandfather clock in the corner of the room struck two, its clear chime easily audible over the roar of the fireplace, the only other noise that filled the quiet of the night. Reminded of his purpose there in the common room, Draco broke off his moody contemplation of the dancing, flickering flames and retrieved the desired book from a small stack sitting there on a little side table. Almost reluctantly, he forced himself to rise from the warmed cushions of his chair, stretched sinuously, then padded silently back through the common room and down the long hallway.

He'd just reached the door to his room, just pushed it gently open on noiseless hinges, when light suddenly flooded the dark hallway. Squinting a bit in the unexpected brightness, he glanced back and saw _her_—Hermione Granger, top-of-the-class, Head Girl—step out of the lavatory. Wisping gouts of steam issued forth all about her, and that as well as the girl's rather bedraggled appearance (not to mention the fact that she was clad in only a towel of the purest white) told him that she'd just finished her bath, and that she'd not expected him to be up at this hour; and neither did she see him standing silent and observant in the shadows, as was his wont.

She took two strides, inadvertently turning her back on him, then the sound of something small falling to the floor filled the hallway's still air. She glanced down quickly in surprise or annoyance and started to bend over, the bottom edge of her towel sliding upwards in a most intriguing manner—then froze when Draco cleared his throat pointedly.

Instantly she straightened, spinning about to face him, a look of surprise flashing across her features before being replaced by one of anger and contempt. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she demanded, self-consciously clutching at the towel wrapped around her slender body. All of a sudden it seemed altogether inadequate for her needs, as tugging up upwards left it scarcely long enough in other areas.

Inwardly Draco entertained several wild fantasies, all of which made his blood pound hotly; but outside he was a picture of composure, allowing only a quirk of a smile to turn his mouth. "Common ground, Granger," he said, crossing his arms and leaning leisurely against the doorframe. "I've as much right to be here as you." One pale eyebrow arched upwards. "What are you going to do about it?"

Her glare hardened and she spun about once more, striding quickly towards her room; the resounding slam of her door was her only reply.

Though sorry to see her go, Draco gave a low chuckle. Sometimes she was so predictable.

Something there on the floor caught his eye; stooping, he came up with a hair pin--doubtless the one she'd gotten from Potter recently.

_Surprising that she would be so careless with it. Perhaps the Weasel has a chance after all._

Draco considered the barrette for a moment. It looked fairly expensive, made or at least overlaid with gold and set with tiny rubies at the tips of the stylized _G_.

_G_ for Gryffindor. Or for Granger.

His hand closed tightly around the pin, and he felt the delicate object give beneath the sudden pressure, bending, strained nearly to the point of breaking.

It did not matter which it stood for: he hated them both.

He stood that way, hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist, for a long moment, then pivoted, determinedly retracing his steps of a few moments before. Standing at the hearth once more, he opened his hand, glancing at the barrette one final time before tossing it offhandedly into the heart of the flames.

Expensive indeed. He could have had a hundred such with no trouble simply by dashing off a note to his parents.

Thoughtfully he ran a finger over the little hollow the jeweled pin had left in his palm, then he forcefully rubbed it out, though even that could not fully remove the mark from his flesh.

_Curse them,_ he thought, and his eyes narrowed into slits. _Those bloody Gryffindors simply have to leave their mark, even where it's not wanted._ A sickly smile twisted his lips just slightly. _But eventually those marks will fade . . . and where they don't, there's always the flames to burn away all such impurities . . ._

He stared into the fire, watching as the barrette blackened and began to melt. Would that he could purify _her _with such ease.

_You'll get your own one day, Mudblood. You shall have your taste of fire._

_. . . And it is my hope that it can come from my own hand . . ._

With a low chuckle he turned, intent on trying for a good night's rest once more, leaving the gilded hair pin to darken in the bright flames and crumble into pale ash.


End file.
